


Fill the Earth

by Darkmagyk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Fluff, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Mutual Pining, Political Marriage, Post-War for the Dawn, R Plus L Equals J, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkmagyk/pseuds/Darkmagyk
Summary: Arya Stark is a simple girl with simple desires: a prosperous North, a safe family, a large pack.And that her favorite brother and only sister would get on with the heir making business. She cannot have a niece until they are properly bedded.But as always, Jon and Sansa are being difficult.





	Fill the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [post](http://visenyastargaryen.tumblr.com/post/173280224459/the-one-true-matchmaker) from [visenyastargaryen](http://visenyastargaryen.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

“You’re a Targaryen, now,” She said, taking a long drink of the ale, “You’re supposed to want to fuck your sister, it isn’t weird.”

She regretted it a moment later, when he spit out his own ale all over her face, and regarded her with an almost horrified expression.

“That wasn’t an invitation to spray _me_ with your fluids,” She snapped, though she just reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face off casual as you please. The little piece of cloth was black and embroidered with a white wolf, a single red pinprick for its eye, because of course it was. Sansa absolutely delighted in making things for her husband, except for, apparently, the most important thing.

Arya’s words had really done a number on him, though, because he didn’t apologize, just gaped in her direction before downing more of his own ale to deal with whatever he was thinking.

She rolled her eyes. “This is getting ridiculous.” She told him. “You can want to fuck you sister because Targaryens. But also, you can want to fuck your wife. It is not dishonorable; it won’t harm anyone’s reputation. In fact, I believe that’s the purpose of matrimony.”

“The purpose of matrimony is political stability and heirs,” Jon was finally able to grit out.

“Exactly,” Arya nodded, “Heirs, which you get by fucking. Little Stark pups, to run around the halls and steal cakes from the kitchens and play jokes on unsuspecting younger siblings in the crypts.” He involuntarily smiled at that. “It's your duty, as the consort of the head of house Stark to produce Heirs.”

He just looked glum at the thought. And maybe a little guilty, possibly for not doing his duty yet, but most likely because…

“And also, you want to. So there's no reasons that you and Sansa shouldn’t fuck.” Arya said, with another sip, she was moving pass the light dizzy feeling of early drink and into the liquid freedom of a true drunken state, “It's your duty and your desire. Fuck your sister, Jon.”

“She’s not my sister,” He said, “She’s my cousin. You know that, everyone knows that. We are cousins. Her father and my mother were brother and sister.” He repeated himself, as though she did not know that as surely as he did. “We’re cousin.”

Arya just laughed, too long, too loud, and chased it down with another drink, “You can tell anyone you want that,” She advised, “You should, probably, so they do not make japes about lions. But you cannot fool me. She is your sister. She has been since she was born. Just like me, and just like Bran and Rickon and Robb are your brothers.”

Jon looked confused for a second, “I don’t want to fuck you.” He said, quickly and firmly, with only a hint of slur to his words.

“Of course not, being a Targaryen means its ok to want to fuck your sister, not that you’ll want to fuck both of them, all the time.” She giggled, “Besides, it would be weird if we fucked. I do not want to fuck you. You look like Father, and you’re married to my sister.” The fact that the last boy Arya had sort of wanted to fuck looked more like a Targaryen and Jon could ever hope to, with deep blue eyes bordering on violet, and pale hair, was one of life’s great ironies that Arya couldn’t really appreciate without two or three more mugs of ale.

“Sansa doesn’t want to...couple with me either.” Jon said.

“Sure she does.” Arya advised him sagely, “You want to fuck your pretty red headed Stark sister, and she wants to fuck her secret Prince, legendary hero, but still a Stark brother. And then everyone wins.”

“What do you win?”

“Your babe! I’ll train it, and love it, and feed it, and take it for walks in the godswood and let it play with Nymeria.” She cheered, raising a toast to the non-existent infant, and sloshing ale down her arm. “So go and do your Targaryen duty.” She said, “Go fuck a Stark into our sister.”

His horrified expression did not cease. Instead, he put his ale down slowly, giving her a vaguely hostile look before he stomped off, but not in the direction of Sansa’s chambers. A constant disappointment.

It had been 3 months, and still, no consummation had taken place. Arya was beyond annoyed. She was getting well and truly angry.

It had all started with so much promise too.

Arya had not gone to the bedding. It was one thing to support such a marriage; it was another thing to help a bunch of jealous little ladies rip the clothes off her brother.

She had stayed behind in the hall, mostly with those too in there cups to join, and a handful of wildlings who thought the whole concept was ill gotten.

Alys Karstark, getting heavy with her third child, stayed and sipped her cider translating between the old tongue and Arya. “They think it’s a bit unseemly,” She explained, “You steel a girl, you take her clothes yourself.”

“I guess that makes since.” She agreed, though that apparently had not stopped the pretty wildling princess Val from eagerly pawing at Jon when he was carried off.

She had not wanted to participate, but sitting next to Alys, watching her wildling husband occasionally reach over to rub her growing belly, Arya could not help but be excited.

She wondered how long it would take Sansa’s womb to quicken with her little niece (or nephew). The bride and groom by all accounts were both young and fertile, but not too young as to suggest particular danger to their health. As long as they coupled regularly, they were sure to produce one in no time. And given the way they looked at each other, they would definitely couple regularly, if they weren’t already.

So in less than a year Sansa should give birth to Jon’s child. And then Arya would have her little niece, a Stark twice over, who she could help with so that her brother and sister could work on their next one, over and over. Until they had at least twice as many as mother and father had.

She had gone to bed a little light headed, but so very lighthearted about it all. And curled into her furs, thinking about the babes she’d be able to curl up with in no time.

The joy had lasted all of an hour, when here was a knock at her door, then it slipped open, and she heard Sansa’s footsteps pad in.

Arya sat up at once in worry, hand already grasped around the knife she kept under her pillow, and faced her sister, wrapped in robe and slippers, and looking apologetic.

“What’s wrong?”

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

“What?”

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

“It’s your wedding night, Sansa,” Arya reminded her, as though Sansa would have missed the ceremony in the godswood, or the month she spent beforehand sewing her maiden cloak. “You’re supposed to spend that with your husband.”

Sansa just shook her head, “No. Well, yes, under normal circumstances, but these are not normal, are they.”

Arya could not argue with that, but nothing had been normal in Winterfell in years, so it was not a great excuse not to do anything. “Jon kicked you out after he bedded you?” Even given non-normal circumstances, that was so unlike Jon.

“No, of course not,” Sansa said quickly, eager to defend him, “He did not. That is to say we did not...um, consummate.”

Arya blinked then, twice, “But, it is your wedding night.” Arya did not know many things. A great deal of her education had been cut short and she had filled it in with an assortment of useful but often unusual other skills. But she definitely knew what happened between a lord husband and lady wife on their wedding night. Mother use to talk about it. They made Robb.

“Yes,” Sansa agreed, “That is why I am here. I _do not_ want to go back to my chambers and cause talk.”

“Talk that you didn’t consummate the marriage, because you didn’t.”

She looked put out at that, “Look, it was a political arrangement. You know that, I know that, the whole of the North knows that. We just need to keep exactly how much of a political arrangement it is quiet. Jon has made his position quite clear.”

“Jon did not want to bed you?”

“No.” Sansa said firmly. That made no sense to Arya; Jon had been staring after Sansa with hearts in his eyes since before the betrothal was even announced.

“Do you want to bed Jon?”

Her sister blushed so red that it was even visible by only the moonlight. “I will do my duty, whatever my lord husband requires of me.” She said. But clearly she meant _yes._

Arya had slid to one side of the bed then, and offered up one of the extra furs.

And so it was. Sansa would feign going to her Lord Husband, and then, when everyone was well and truly sure they were working on an heir, she would slip into Arya’s room down the hall, so no servant might find her in her own, and spread talk. (Servants tended to avoid Arya’s room when she was in it.)

There was something almost nice about Sansa curling up next to her in bed, knowing where her sister was, and that Arya was always on hand to protect her after so long without any protection. It reminds her of the years so long past now, when they had been little more than babes, sharing a nursery room and a bed.

But there would be something nicer about a niece she could shape to her whims, a whole new pack of little Starks to keep their House and Winterfell strong for many thousands of years to come. 

Arya liked to remind her sister of that.

“You always wanted to have children with a handsome prince.” She said to her, “I don’t know what’s holding you back now.”

The candles were long since snuffed out, the shadows from the dying fire playing tricks on the walls. Alone with her only sister in the dark, as when she was a little in her cups with Jon, Arya found it in herself to speak her mind.

Sansa had an excuse every time.

Sometimes it was specific:

“He’d been ill all week.”

“He’s so tired from mediating with the Thenns.”

And sometimes it was more general:

“You know this is just a political match.”

“He sees me as his sister that was not why we got married.”

But she always had an excuse.

And Arya did not get a niece.

***

They were sitting in the Lord’s solar, four Starks.

Jon had Rickon on the floor by the fire, walking him through how to work a blade over a whetstone.

Her youngest brother was eight now and absolutely obsessed with swinging a sword. He wasn’t allowed live steel to train, of course, and he had missed something like five years of practice that a boy his age and birth would be expected to have, but he made up for it in wildling savagery and enthusiasm.

Which was why Jon had started on new path of weapon care responsibility with him. Sometime that meant cleaning the two halves of Ice, other times it mean polishing Dark Sister, sometimes it meant a reminder on how to care for scabbards and the jewels of Blackfyre’s hilts. Tonight it meant borrowing a blade that was not of Jon’s considerable valyrian collection, and working through sharpening it. 

Arya knew that Jon would be almost as good a father as she would be an aunt. He was patient with Rickon, gentle but firm. Even after a year returned to polite society, their brother was wild. But Jon knew the wildlings, just as he knew Winterfell, and he was great at bridging the gaps for Rickon.

Sansa was supposed to be going through some household ledgers, and Arya was supposed to be helping her with the numbers. But really, Sansa was watching their brothers together, and Arya was watching her.

Rickon has the same red hair and blue eyes as Sansa and Mother, but now that he was older, they could see the length of his face, the line of his jaw. He got them from his Stark side, and sitting side by side, Rickon and Jon looked very much related, like how as she had gotten older, Arya’s Tully cheekbones and nose have made themselves more pronounced.

Rickon was the son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, but he could just as easily have been the son of Jon and Sansa Stark, and her sister could see that just as clearly as Arya did.

It was clear from the well-disguised longing in her face that Sansa was absolutely enraptured with the image.

Which made the Maester’s imposition well timed.

He was a young sort of man, who had apparently only had about half his chain done when Theon’s uncle had destroyed Old Town and the Citadel with it, and he did not have any of the gravitas of Maester Luwin from Arya’s youth, but he looked determined as he requested entry.

He bowed a little to all present, and only cleared his throat four times before he got to his point, allowing Jon to raise from the floor, and Sansa to stop all pretense of looking at the books.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” the Maester swallowed heavily, turning between the two of them “Your Grace, I do not wish to interrupt, but some court gossip has recently come to my attention, and I thought I might be of assistance.”

Sansa and Jon shared a look, in tune with each other, as they often were. Arya did not understand all of it, but the gist was clear, staying abreast of court gossip was one of Sansa’s chief skills, and nothing she had heard recently should involve the intervention of a maester.

“Well?” Jon asked, expectantly. The Maester’s eyes flitted to Rickon, who remained enamored with the sharp metal in his lap. Then to Arya, who was clearly paying attention to him.

“Well,” The Maester swallowed again, “You’ve been married, Your Grace, Your Grace, for six moons, and as of yet there are no signs of an heir.”

The change was immediate. Sansa’s polite smile replaced her most stoic mask. Jon’s entire body tensed. They did not look at each other again.

Even the Maester, green that he was, noticed the sudden hostility. He looked like he might make a run for it. So Arya helpfully cut in before he could leave.

“You think you can help?” She asked.

He looked at her, a little startled. But she smiled and nodded encouragingly. Arya was good at making friends. She had lost the habit when she came home, to wrapped up in her siblings, maybe, but she remembered how, she should work on that again.

“Yes, Princess,” He told her, “Yes, I, um, that is to say, before the destruction of...well, I forged my silver link, and I took a special interest in fertility matters.” He blushed a bit at his own statement, “And so I might be able to provide help. Some foods to eat, some...err...positions to try, and I could work out the best dates for predicting conception.”

He was bright red when he ended his speech, but Jon and Sansa were both pale.

But the diplomat that she was, Sansa had the since to recover, she smiled her scared, charming smile.

“Thank you, Maester Russet,” She said, “That all sounds lovely, perhaps you could prepare a list of your suggestions.”

He looked as eager for his excuse to leave, as he had been to provide his help. And left with a promise to lay everything out at a later date.

Quickly, Jon sat back now next to Rickon, and Sansa rejoined Arya with renewed purpose. Both of them making a point to no look at the other until they all left for their luncheon.

Arya figured it was a start.

***

She gave Jon three days to do something before she went to him.

They had had this conversation before, but never sober. She considered finding some wine, but had decided against it.

She needed to do this unimpeded, so he knew she was serious.

She knocked on his solar door. She did not normally, but she was working on some of her diplomacy skills with Sansa, and she said that catching people unaware was a good opening move. Arya tested it out.

There was a guard in the hallway, so no one unseemly should have made it to the door to knock.

So Jon just called, “Come in.” And only looked up from his desk when she shut the door behind her.

Her unusual entrance earned her a frown.

“We missed you in the training yards this morning.” He said, though, lightly, friendly, brotherly, “Rickon was very disappointed.”

The thought makes her smile. Jon was as classically trained a swordsmen as they came, and Rickon wanted to be just like him. But Arya’s own skills were a mess of things she’d learned from people and places all along the way, and Rickon thrilled in the novelty of it. 

“I was helping the Maester,” She said, “He was making a list of what we had that could help with conception, and I was helping him look while Sansa was speaking with the steward.”

Jon’s grey eyes, just like Arya’s, widened at the thought, his lips tightening.

“You should not have wasted your time,” he finally gritted out.

“It isn’t a waste,” Arya countered, “it is vital to the future of the North. You need an heir.”

“Yes, of course, because you, Bran, and Rickon don’t count.” Jon countered. And he actually looked a little triumphant, as though that was not one of the stupidest things he had ever said.

“Why do you think the Lords had you get married?” She asked.

“Because they were idiots who didn’t know what to do when faced with a female line man, a male line woman, a magical cripple, and a wildling boy. Plus Robb’s will.” Jon said with a sigh. “So they badgered me and Sansa to marry, unite our claims, and be done with it.”

“Yes,” Arya agreed, “You realize the point of uniting your claims was for you to produce a child to be the inheritor of that claim, right. Just waiting for any children of mine and Bran and Rickon’s to fight it out later is exactly what we are trying to avoid.”

Jon looked a little pale at the thought, as if he had not actually considered that. He might not have. Jon was clever, and he understood the politics of the North in his own way, but once he made up his mind on something, he could be short sighted about it.

“Talk to Sansa,” Arya advised. “If you are not going to confess you undying love for her, at least ask for her opinion on the entire heir situation.”

“I’m not…”

“Jon, you gave the kitchens a standing order to prepare at least enough lemon cake for Sansa every day. You make a point to flaunt all the clothes and handkerchiefs she gave you. You literally growled last week when Sigorn Thenn, who you know as well as I has eyes for only one kneeler, his wife, asked her to dance. You are very much in love with Sansa. Given the way she glares after Val, and makes you those pretty clothes, and watches you train in the yards with a slightly glazed look, it is mutual.”

She sighed. She had not laid it out in full for either of them before. But it really was ridiculous. “But I do not think you are going to have that conversation. So have the conversation about the heir, instead. Then have a conversation with the maester about the best ways or what not. And then please produce my niece.”

She got up and left then, without waiting for the King in the North to give her any such leave.

She would give them one more week, and then...maybe ask the Maester what foods might get them properly in the mood, and find a singer who could play some of the more explicit songs.

Or maybe she’d just lock them in the Lord’s chamber and not let them out until they at least talked about their feelings.

It did not take a week.

Two days after she had confronted Jon, Sansa asked Arya to join her after lunch in her solar.

It was awkwardly formal when they got there, Sansa sat down behind her desk, and so Arya took one of the chairs on the other side.

“I know you’ve been helping the Maester,” Sansa started, “And speaking to Jon.”

Two could play at this game, “As a member of House Stark, it is my duty to see our house thrive,” She said, “And that means doing what I can to ensure the King and Queen produce and heir.”

Sansa nodded, “Jon said you had talked to him. About why we needed an heir, specifically.”

“I did.” Arya agreed, “And honestly, I know why he did not think of it, but I am not sure why you didn’t.”

Sansa just hung her head. “I...you know this is all very hard and complicated.”

“It is. I know it is...strange.” Arya added, “But whatever else, you do need an heir. We need a clear line of succession. Bran, Rickon, and I are not going to go to war over it, but these things can be difficult down the line.”

Sansa nodded, Arya knew she fully grasped the political implications, even if perhaps she had been willfully ignoring it in the face of all the personal ones. Jon could be singularly focused and shortsighted, but Sansa could lie to herself.

“I’m his sister,” Sansa said, “It bothers him.”

“No, he feels like it should bother him,” Arya corrected, “But he’s a Targaryen now, so it does not need to. It really is an elegant solution.”

“What does that even mean?”

“That Targaryens marry and get heirs on their sisters. It is just what they do, like riding dragons and Jon did that one already. And everyone else can just pretend Jon’s our cousin, so no one has to think it is a new _Stark_ trend or anything.”

“But you know he is our brother,” Sansa said.

“Of course, no little thing like him being sired by some crazy prince can change that.” She worried the hilt of Needle almost unconsciously with her thumb then. A gift from her brother, kept safe through everything. Rhaegar Targaryen did not get to take that away from her. Any more then Sansa marrying him did.

“Yes,” Her sister agreed, “And so how do you feel about it. You cannot just accept that we are married and that we are going to have to create a child.”

“Of course I can.” Arya said, “I want what is best for the North and what is best for the two of you. The North needs an heir. I know you have always wanted to give children to a handsome prince. I get a niece. The older I am getting, the more sure I am that my calling in life is to be an aunt. So we all get exactly what we want. You and Jon does not bother me at all. It is a good thing.” She watched Sansa for a long moment, and then a different thought occurred to her. She knew Sansa loved Jon, she knew Sansa wanted to Jon in every since. But maybe she was not actually comfortable with it. And she was seeking Arya as her way out.

“Are you comfortable with it?” Arya asked, “I am alright with you and Jon marrying and all of that, but are you alright with all it means.” Sansa, more than anyone else in their family, had been a victim of Cersei Lannister, and to now find herself in love with her brother...

Jon was a Targaryen, but Sansa was not.

Sansa turned as red as her hair. “I am more than happy to fulfil my duty.”

“It would be more then duty,” Arya said, lightly, “be honest.”

She somehow got even redder. “I...am willing too...that is, I am happy too...I...I..., I do want to be a mother. And there is certainly no man I would, uhm, prefer, to Jon.” She looked down, embarrassed, “Brother or not.”

“Jon loves you,” Arya offered, “Targaryens often married their sisters, but they were not always great at loving, even just as sisters. Jon will not have that problem.”

“We know Rhaegar wanted to name him Aemon. And Prince Aemon loved his sister.” Sansa said, with a slight smile.

Arya snorted, “No, he did not.” She countered, and when Sansa looked horrified, Arya raised an eyebrow, “He did not, and I have grown to hate when people say that he did. He stood outside the door and cried while his brother raped his sister. That is not love. Or if it is, it is an utterly worthless kind.”

“He had his vows.” And for a horrible moment they were nine and eleven again.

“So did Jaime Lannister,” She countered, “And you know how much it pains me to give any of them any credit, but he did stop Areys from blowing up King’s Landing. I mean it still blew up, and he should have told someone about the wildfire.” Arya decided to throw her sister a bone “But he managed to save people despite being a kingsguard.”

Sansa actually laughed a little at that, “Gods, managed to save people _despite_ being a Kingsguard, I would have been so upset by that notion as a child. That the heroes did not truly exist.”

Arya shrugged “But now we know they do.” And Sansa smiled and nodded at that. “And we know that Jon loves us so much more then Aemon loved Narys. Jon would not stand idly by when he thought his sister was being raped. We know that for a fact.” It was a hard though, Arya had, sometimes. What Jon had been willing to do for her, “He died for me.” It was difficult to say aloud, to think of her big brother dead in the cold, killed by people who were supposed to be _his_ brothers. It made her angry, too, to think that these people had Jon when Arya had not, and had wasted him. “Jon is not Aemon. He would do anything for us. Vows or not. Starks make much better brothers then Targaryens. We are lucky, you are lucky, Jon is both. And a real hero besides” 

Sansa nodded at it, and her eyes looked a little dreamy at the thought. She was always going to be a little bit in love with some heroic Prince. Now she just knew what that meant, who was worthy of her. “A real hero, not just something out of a song. Better than the songs they sing about him.”

“Exactly. Just how all of the songs about you only mention your beauty, and not your excellent resource management.” Arya said, “Though, Aemon didn’t have the nerve to bed his sister. That is another thing the two of you should improve upon.”

Sansa blushed again, but she looked determined, “You really are alright with it. You think it is a good idea?”

“Yes, I really would like for you and Jon to produce and heir. And maybe stop making eyes at each other behind the other’s back.”

That did nothing to stop Sansa’s blush, but she left the room looking almost eager with anticipation. Leaving Ayra alone in her sister’s solar. There was a piece of parchment on the desk, and she recognized Russet’s handwriting. She had seen him a lot over the weeks, she enjoyed his company, and he seemed to enjoy serving House Stark. On it was a list of dates. Sansa’s most fertile days. Today was on the list.

That night, after they ate and the entire family finished their tasks in Jon’s solar as had become something of a custom, Jon and Sansa left together.

Arya stayed awake far too long that night, hoping that her sister would not once again seek refuge in her bed.

She did eventually fall asleep though, and she woke up to find herself still alone.

The cheer she gave startled the poor maid she had asked for to spread a little gossip in case Sansa did show up, who was fixing the morning fire.

***

Sansa and Jon were clearly in love with each other, but they would not act like it properly.

Arya know they were coupling regularly now. Sansa went to Jon’s chambers every night the Maester suggested and some dates besides, and she always stayed the night.

But outside of their bed, which the noises drifting from their chambers would suggest was not a place of meek connections, they seemed to have become even more delicate around each other.

They stole even more glances at each other, but were more paranoid than ever about not getting caught, least of all by the object of their affections.

When speaking to Arya, Bran, or Rickon, they always called each other Jon or Sansa, but when speaking to anyone else, even close friends like Meera Reed, or each other, they only called each other “My Lord” and “My Lady.” They only touched if Jon offered Sansa his arm. They still ran Winterfell and the North together, but seemed reluctant to spend time alone together otherwise.

Every mask of priority and formal etiquette suddenly stood between them, not cold, not at all, but a distance that beguiled nerves, maybe even fear.

After a turn, Lady Meera asked if something was wrong.

After two, both Bran and Rickon seemed to notice.

It was another annoyance, but Arya was much less bothered then before. As she understood these things took time

She had waited half a year for them to be properly wedded _and_ bedded. She could give them that time to move past whatever _this_ was.

They still acted as a family, after all. Still gathered together, the five of them, in one of the solars to bask in the warmth of a pack of Starks in Winterfell.

As such, she was in Jon’s solar one morning. Rickon was hideously behind on his studies, of course, but her own academic knowledge stopped a reading, writing, sums, and history. Jon was seeking to rectify that in both of them.

Rickon would surely do as many a younger Stark son had before, and be given a hold fast in the name of the King and Queen, and he needed to know how to do that.

And as it became increasingly clear that Arya had NO desire to marry anyone, Jon had started making noise about training her as castellan with Bran.

Bran actually did have some idea how to be the Lord of a great keep, so he was spared the introductory lessons, but Rickon had only just mastered enough of his letters and figures to move onto the basics. He seemed mostly board, poor boy, but Arya was interested.

There was a knock at the door, and Jon didn’t even really look up from the ledger, running a burned fingers along a line of numbers, and reminding Rickon to take note as he called enter.

Sansa came in. She was wearing what looked like a new gown. Grey, as was her way now, but rendered in slightly more voluminous velvet instead of the silk she had been preferring lately. A gaggle of small direwolves dances at the hem. Normally Sansa embroidered there wolves, including Lady and Grey Wind, but these looked different.

“My Lady,” Jon said, straightening up formally before giving a slight dip of a bow, which Sansa returned in curtsy, “How might we serve you this morning.” Arya was willing to accept it, but still, the stiffness was painful to watch between two siblings.

“I, um, well,” Sansa smiled. A shy little thing, so unlike her normal courtly mask, “I was hoping I might speak to you, Jon.”

He looked a little taken aback by the use of his given name. Based on the look Rickon shot Arya, he was not alone.

“Of course,” Jon tried, motioning for her to take one of the seats, which she did not do. “Would you like some wine?” Rickon’s manners were still somewhat lacking, and he was not yet deemed competent enough to be the King in the North’s official cupbearer, but he knew it was a duty that would soon fall to him, and so he rushed to get the pitcher and goblets, and pour some for both.

“No,” Sansa said, “I do not need wine for this.” Though the twist of her mouth, more nervous than Arya had ever seen, suggested otherwise, “I will not take up too much of your time.”

Rickon put the pitcher and glasses down with a clank, and stared at his eldest sister in question.

“What can I do for you, my...Sansa?” Jon asked. But she did not say anything for several long minutes

“I’m with child,” She finally said. And even Arya held her breath as they waited for Jon to react.

They did not wait long.

In a second, he went to her, then he had his arms around her waist, and lifted her straight off the ground, spinning on the spot and pulling her close to him. He brought their mouths together, and they did not separate for a long time.

“Eww.” Cried Rickon, after what felt like several minutes.

Jon set Sansa down carefully, but then he jumped back like he had been burned, seeming to realize what he had done. He looked horrified.

But Sansa just looked flushed and happy.

Glowing.

And threw herself at him again.

Jon took Sansa in his arms again, grasped her tighter, and held her closer.

Rickon’s second whining did not pry them apart.

“Come on, Rickon,” Arya said, grabbing his hand, “I think our lesson is done for the day. Let’s go find Bran.”

“But he’d probably kissing too. He keeps kissing Lady Reed, even though she’d old.”

Arya, considered it, she’d maybe been a bit preoccupied with Sansa and Jon, but yes, Bran had been making similar eyes at Meera Reed.

“That’s ok,” Arya said, leading him away, Nymeria and Shaggy following at their heels “We can never have too many nieces.”

***

She hoped Sansa was sleeping. She certainly deserved to be. The labor two days ago had been long. But the babe in his cradle, little Prince Eddard of House Stark, was more than worth it, clearly.

If Sansa was sleeping, then Jon was probably running Winterfell while its Lady was indisposed. Bran was probably assisting him, as was his way, but Arya knew that Rickon was not. He had come to the nursery an hour earlier to liberate his nieces and nephews. He had claimed it was for practice, but Arya knew better. He had only found out his wife was expecting ten days ago, and he had been stealing away with the children since Lya had been born.

Arya was left alone in the nursery; she’d even dismissed the nurse for a few hours. Just Arya, baby Ned, and Kit.

Kit, named after a much beloved mother that her father could not bear to call her after, watched the babe with a sort of strange fascination. Not like one would look at a miracle, but like one might look at a particularly misshapen fruit that seemed to have a face in it, like a Weirwood. A little gross and a little mysterious.

She was five now, and old enough to truly grasp what babes were, where they came from, and that they were now going to hold a new place in the family. 

The last arrivals, the twins Benjen and Jojen, were nearing three now, and her only other younger sibling, her sister Arya, had celebrated her third name day not long ago. When they had been born, Kit had been barely more than a babe, but now she was ready to be, if not an older sister, then an observer of new children.

“He doesn’t look like Papa.” She told her Aunt seriously, reaching out and running a finger over his red fuzz.

“No,” Arya agreed, “He looks like your Lady Mother. And he looks like his Uncle Robb.”

Kit frowned, as Arya knew she would “He doesn’t look like Robb, Robb looks like Papa.”

“He doesn’t look like his brother Robb,” Arya agreed, who at seven was the image of Jon. “He looks like your Uncle Robb, I know you know the story.”

Kit scrunched her forehead, thinking, “The King? The Young Wolf?”

“That’s the one,” Arya said, encouragingly, “Our little Ned is going to look like him.”

“Shouldn’t they have named him Robb then, if Papa looks like Grandfather, like everyone says, then Robb does too, and so he should have been Eddard. So they matched.”

“We don’t know what a babe’s going to look like until it is born,” Arya reminded her. She had asked such questions half a hundred times during the most recent pregnancy. “And they do not have match.”

“But I match,” She said, “Papa told me so. He said my Lady Grandmother had red hair and blue eyes and was very pretty, like Mama and you.” Jon’s ability to not spit venom when speaking of her mother was a feature all but Rickon knew to admire him for.

“That’s true, but they would have given you your name either way. Lya looks like Jon, but Little Arya does not look much like me, either. And we do not know what Eddard will grow up to look like either.” Arya added, “Uncle Rickon looked about like this when he was born, but as he got older, he looked more like your papa and your grandfather, even with the red hair and blue eyes.”

Kit nodded as she took it all in. Then she leaned closer to her aunt and whispered, “I’m very happy he is hear.”

“Me too,” Arya agreed, she kept the whisper too, though nothing illicit was being spoken.

“But Mamma was loud when he was born.”

Arya laughed a little, “That’s true, birth is loud. Remember when Mercy was born.” She nodded to the direwolf pup, curled up in the corner.

Kit’s eyes went wide, “It was like that?” She asked, forgetting her whisper, “But, it was so messy. There was blood everywhere. It was not like that with Mamma.”

“It was,” Arya confirmed, then added quickly, “But that is normal and Maester Russet was there to help.”

“So all births are loud and messy?”

“More or less.”

Kit returned to staring at her brother, but there was a twinge of horror to her fascination now.

“I do not want to do it,” She said, finally.

“What?”

“Have any babes. I do not want to do it. It is loud and messy and probably hurts.”

Arya burst out laughing then, a long clear sort of thing.

Kit was a mirror of her mother and grandmother. She was the perfect lady of the group. Though Lya was as fond as could be of music and dance, of flowers and pretty dresses, she was a wild wolf at heart, and had mostly learned to sew so she could mend the rips she made in her pretty dresses. And she always took to the training yards with a desperate sort of glint in her eye. Arya was young yet, but she chased after her wolf and her wolf chased after her, and sometimes it was hard to tell princess from beast.

But Kit knew her manners. Kit liked to stay indoors and work on her sewing. She liked to attend her lessons and pay attention. If she thought it likely that she would get mud on her, she would request to go inside and allowed to change into the one dress that she had decided was allowed to get dirty.

And yet, Lya often spoke about the children she hoped to have, often with whatever heir had recently come to visit with their father. And Arya had a truly staggering amount of dolls. She referred to all of them as her babies, and would tell anyone who asked that she was their mama.

But Kit did not such thing. She never had where Arya could see.

“That’s ok, sweetling,” Arya said, she was young still, and she had plenty of time to change her mind, but she was also more than welcome not too. “I think you would make the most wonderful favorite aunt.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [tumblr](http://darkmagyk.tumblr.com/).


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